


O Night Divine

by anonymintea



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Can you guess what year this takes place?, Christmas, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Canon, Rated T just for Crowley's potty mouth, Whatever Pre-Canon means in the Good Omens fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27789799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymintea/pseuds/anonymintea
Summary: “Absolutely terrible, isn't it?”“I beg your pardon?”“The holidays,” Crowley replied. “Most dreadful time of year.” The feeling of cheer and holiday spirit may have put a spring in Aziraphale's step, but it was an oppressive weight on Crowley's chest. Like being outside on a humid day, the joy of Christmas was sticky in his lungs, suffocating.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	O Night Divine

Soho, London || December 22nd 

The bookshop was surprisingly busy. Well, maybe it wasn't all that surprising – it was three days until Christmas Day, after all. The more surprising thing was that the bookshop was _open_.

Aziraphale, the Angel of the Eastern Gate, was doing his best to be courteous and kind to the many customers in his bookshop, though the crowd was getting to be a little more than he could comfortably manage. Truth be told, he was much more comfortable with a crowd of _none_ , but it was a holiday, and he always became a bit intoxicated by the feeling of cheer. He had somehow been goaded into selling a third edition of E. M. Forster, not just because the woman had looked at him with such bright eyes, but the way she breathlessly said “my husband will _love_ it” filled him with such a bright, bubbly feeling, he couldn't not grant her wish. And besides, a third edition wouldn't be missed too terribly tomorrow, would it?

Aziraphale's mind was slightly more at ease knowing that, especially this time of year, not many customers would actually want to make a purchase – window shopping and tucking into quaint little shops with significant others was part of the spirit of the times. His heart warmed a bit to see the young couples, hand in hand, browsing the stacks, murmuring to one another about this text and that author – “what do you mean, you haven't read any Allen Ginsberg?” – with flushed cheeks, perhaps because of the cold, or perhaps because of their company.

Outside, the sun had sunk out of sight and the city hummed with soft electric streetlight. Any other time of year the dull orange glow wouldn't have been romantic, but it was the holiday season, and Aziraphale was so bright with cheer that he likened the rows of lamps to strings of Christmas tree lights decorating the whole of London. He fussed over his shop and the customers within, wrapping the purchases in paper for gift-giving and guiding the curious customer to the manuscript they sought. (The spirit of the holiday did not make him lose his mind completely – when the shop was this busy, he often had no choice other than to miracle a few selected texts off to the back room before the customer could notice. “Ah!” he'd exclaim sheepishly as the book vanished behind his back. “Must have already sold that one earlier today. My mistake. Perhaps instead I could interest you in...”)

Which is probably the reason why the shop was still open at 8:38 in the evening. Normally he would have begun shooing customers out at least 30 minutes ago, if not more, but he was so distracted tonight. Startled by how late the hour was becoming, he snapped his pocket watch closed and hastily tucked it away. “Please, everyone,” he announced, marching up to the counter. “Make your final purchases, we will be closing in 15 minutes!”

Aziraphale was so distracted, in fact, that he didn't notice the forces of evil lurking around. Or rather, a singular force of evil. The serpentine demon Crowley had wordlessly sidled into the shop after lingering outside for a few moments. More moments than were necessary, really. He shook his head and tried to pull himself together as he willed his physical form into the storefront. The bell jingled as he pushed open the door, but it was Christmastime, and everything jingled nowadays, so no one really noticed. His eyebrow arched at the size of the crowd inside. It certainly wasn't a large one, by any means, given the time of year – but given the nature of the quaint bookshop, it may have been the largest Crowley had seen.

Over at the counter, Aziraphale was arguing with a older gentleman – “Now, I'm not sure how you got this book down from there, but I can assure you it is _not_ for sale” – and Crowley decided it was best not to interrupt. He sauntered his way to the back room, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his black wool coat.

One by one, Aziraphale cleared the customers out the front door. When he finally shut the door – with a _ding_ from the bell – and locked it soundly, he let out a long sigh. _And to think, I still have tomorrow and Christmas Eve_ , he thought, and it was not entirely as miserable a thought as it should have been.

The angel circled the shop, clicking off the lamps with the snap of his fingers, straightening this stack and that pile, and unbuttoning his cuffs. Once the shop was dark and tidied, he went into the back room, rolling his sleeves to the elbow. He was rather lost in thought, the fog of a day's work clouding his mind, so much so that he didn't even sense the demonic presence in the room. Perhaps the lingering aura of evil had become so commonplace to him that it wasn't enough to shake him from his thoughts.

He loosened his bowtie, leaving it dangling around his neck, and turned to the stack of books on the end table beside the easy chair. The books he had miracled away from his customers. He picked them up, with the intention of moving them to his desk, already piled high with papers and books and empty cocoa mugs, when –

“Hello, angel.”

Aziraphale startled with a yelp and the books careened dangerously out of his grasp. But in the blink of an eye, or, rather, the snap of demonic fingers, they were stacked neatly on his desk.

Aziraphale's heart thudded in his chest. “Crowley!” he snapped, whipping around. “Oh, don't _do_ that to me!”

The Serpent of Eden stood, partially shrouded in shadow, leaning against a bookshelf. A coy smile played across his face, dark sunglasses hiding the amusement in his eyes. But Aziraphale knew it was there, all the same. “Oh, come on. Don't be so cross.” He slinked over to the couch and unceremoniously plopped down, all his gangly limbs splayed haphazard. “I'm a demon, 's in my job description. Got to surprise you every once in a while.”

“Surprise me, hm?” Aziraphale humphed, crossing his arms. “That's what you're here for? Just to give me a fright, meet your quota for the month?”

Crowley snorted. “Is that what you think I do all day? Running around in the shadows, popping out at people? Scaring babies?”

Aziraphale frowned. “I've no interest in how the forces of evil spend their time,” the angel retorted, a holier-than-thou edge to his voice. Though, this was, of course, a lie. Perhaps more of a half-truth. He needed to know at least to some degree what Hell was up to, in order to thwart them. And if he was being truly honest, he did have some degree of interest in how a particular demon spent his time.

The corners of Crowley's mouth twisted up in a wry smile. He also knew this was a lie, but thought better than to push the angel on it.

“Lot of customers in the shop today,” he remarked, shifting his weight as he slung his arm across the back of the couch, and pushed his other hand through his fiery shoulder-length hair.

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale sighed, shaking his head. “I always get so carried away, around this time of year.”

“Absolutely terrible, isn't it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The holidays,” Crowley replied, waving his hand in a general way to indicate to, well, everything. “Most dreadful time of year.”

“Oh, well of course _you_ would think so,” Aziraphale snorted. “I suppose the tidings of good will and peace on Earth make your lot rather miserable.”

“Ugh, just horrible,” Crowley said, scrunching up his nose. The feeling of cheer and holiday spirit may have put a spring in Aziraphale's step, but it was an oppressive weight on Crowley's chest. Like being outside on a humid day, the joy of Christmas was sticky in his lungs, suffocating. He made a sound of disgust and stuck out his tongue.

Aziraphale felt a laugh rising in his chest. “Oh, you're such a Scrooge,” he chuckled, pushing away from the desk he had been leaning his weight against. “I'm going to fix myself a drink. Can I offer you something?”

“Hmm, what've you got?”

“Oh, I was thinking mulled wine. I'm feeling rather _festive_.” Aziraphale beamed at the demon in a way that was fully meant to tease him.

Crowley grimaced. “Absolutely not! I'd rather drink poison.”

The angel tilted his head to the side. “Well technically, my dear, alcohol _is_ a kind of poison...” he began, but Crowley groaned and flopped his head back dramatically.

“Do you still have any of that scotch left?” He need something to take the edge off of the atmosphere, and, if he were being honest with himself, his own nerves. Perhaps this would be easier with a little alcohol in him.

“Scotch? Really?”

“Aw, c'mon angel! It's just one drink.”

It was not, in fact, just one drink. Crowley wasn't quite sure how many he'd had. Aziraphale's one mug of spiced wine never really seemed to empty all the way. Each time Crowley thought it must be almost empty, it was suddenly half-full again. But maybe that was just his perspective. The demon reached for the decanter of scotch and poured himself another glass.

“And waitin' for hoursss in checkout lines at the department stores?” Crowley drawled, words only a bit slurred. “All the jingles that get stuck in your head? 'N Christmas car commercials? Totally demonic work!”

The angel let out a little gasp. “You're sabotaging Christmas!” Aziraphale accused, sinking further into the plush chair.

“Well, 'course I am! Had to do sssomething to make Christmas awful. Way too cheery, it was gettin' to be. So, commercializzze this, make the kids want more and more stuff. Make the family dinners miserable, with everyone fighting and- and kids cryin' and all that,” the demon continued, gesturing wildly with his free arm.

Aziraphale shook his head, disturbed by Crowley's talk of demonic work. “No, no, but the true meaning of Christmas –”

“Oh, _shove_ the true meaning of Christmas!” Crowley howled, nearly leaping off the couch. “You and I both know the kid wasn't even born on December 25th –”

“It's symbolic!” Aziraphale protested. “Of, of humankind coming together and making peace and –”

“Oh, come off it,” Crowley barked with a laugh. “You were there! You know what a messs it was!”

Aziraphale groaned, his head tipping forward. “I don't want to think about it.”

Crowley was now almost completely horizontal on the couch, and he raised his glass, as if to toast. “Givin' birth in a barn! No doctor, no midwife. Oh, the smell was wretched. And she was jus' a kid herself! Not more than fourteen, fifteen, hm?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I- I didn't want any part of that. I went to go talk to the shepherds, I was not going stay there and sing.”

“Sssing?” Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale groaned. “They asked me to, to sing the hallelujahs and the glorias, and I just _absolutely_ refused. I just... Oh, do you know how long it had been since I had any sort of practice in a choir?” The angel paused and took a large gulp from his glass. “Oh, and Gabriel was quite upset with me, but I told him _no_ , that I was not about to, to utterly embarrass myself with singing after almost four mil- millennia without a proper warm up, even!”

Crowley snorted hard enough that scotch threatened to come up out of his nose. He jerked upright, coughing a bit, sunglasses askew. He kept laughing through the coughs, eyes shut tight and face tipped upward. Aziraphale felt a smile grow on his own face, though he wasn't sure why. His cheeks felt a little hot. Perhaps it was time to stop drinking.

Crowley pushed his sunglasses up on to the top of his head, smiling still. “I can't even imagine, you, in an angelic little choir, singing harmoniesss,” he chuckled, and took another sip from his tumbler. He let out a little sigh and flopped his weight back onto the sofa, slinging an arm across the back and stretching out a leg. It was like his human body couldn't contain his self, the way he sprawled all over, limps haphazard. “Well, what posssition are you?” he asked, amusement sparkling in his yellow eyes, predator eyes that pierced right through Aziraphale.

“I... I beg your pardon?” The angel felt his breath hitch in his throat, flush grow deeper in his face.

Crowley didn't seem to notice. “Like, you know...” he puffed his cheeks, blowing air through his lips and brandishing his glass, “tenor, bass? Alto? I asssume you're not a soprano.”

“Oh, ah...” Aziraphale caught himself and leaned forward to set his mug on the table. It was definitely time to stop drinking. He shook his head, as if that could clear the drunkenness from his mind. “Um, yes, tenor, typically,” he replied, not looking Crowley in the eye.

“... Right,” the demon replied. He tugged at the collar of his black turtleneck, which had become a bit tight on his throat. Crowley's composure seemed cool, perhaps even a little bored, but Aziraphale had come to know his face better than many things, and knew that the slight clench of his jaw conveyed nervousness. Or was Aziraphale simply imagining the stiffness in the serpent's mouth?

Without a cup to preoccupy his hands, Aziraphale wasn't sure what to do with them. He clasped them in his lap as a beat of silence settled between them, then reached for his pocket watch. “Oh, dear,” he said. “It's getting to be so late, and I still have so much to do before I open the shop tomorrow...” He let the sentence trail off.

“Right, right,” Crowley mumbled, suddenly sitting up straighter. He fiddled with the watch on his own wrist. “S'pose you have a lot of angelic work to do, spreading peace on Earth and all that.”

“Oh, actually, head office doesn't really... _celebrate_ Christmas,” he admitted. “It's completely something the humans came up with, and, well...” He hesitated, trying to choose his words carefully. “I'm not certain they are, hm... quite concerned with the seasonal tidings of joy and good will here on Earth.”

Crowley frowned. “Oh, sure,” he said and rolled his yellow eyes. “Of course they wouldn' be.” He didn't even try to hide the venom in his voice. “They couldn't give a rat's ass about humanity –”

“Well, the holiday spirit certainly increases the, the aptitude for miracles,” Aziraphale backtracked, without really knowing why. “So, I do get a few more assignments than usual, you know, but I just don't believe Christmas is a, uh, priority.”

Crowley's frown deepened. The demon looked significantly annoyed, which confused Aziraphale. Surely it should have pleased this agent of Hell to know that Heaven was not putting any extra effort in to bringing peace to Earth, but instead it seemed to have soured the mood. Crowley started to say something, but thought better of it, and downed the remaining scotch from his glass.

“Well, s'pose I should be going now, anyway,” he said finally, clearing his throat and setting the cup on the table. “I have my own, uh, demonic activity to get up to. Ruining Christmas, an' all that.”

“Y-yes, quite,” Aziraphale replied, his voice sounding small, even to himself. He slid his hands down the length of his trousers and patted his knees. What does one do with hands? He couldn't remember.

Crowley stood abruptly, and grabbed his black wool coat from where he had thrown it over the arm of the sofa. He seemed to hesitate, just for a moment. Then he slipped it over his lithe frame, and cleared his throat. His sunglasses were still pushed up on the top of his head, and he felt quite exposed suddenly. He shoved one hand deep in the pocket of his coat, and pulled the glasses back down over his eyes with the other.

Internally, his thoughts raced. Perhaps the drinking had not been the best idea after all. It was making him more confused. He licked his lips, tasting the air, and was startled to taste – was that? His own fear?

“Well, goodbye, angel,” he said quickly, briefly glancing in Aziraphale's direction only long enough to see a very strange expression on his face as he stepped toward the door.

Aziraphale jumped up. “I'll lock the door after you,” he said, but Crowley was already halfway across the bookshop.

“No need,” the demon replied hastily, his voice low, as he snapped his fingers and the door swung open.

“Ah, um, well,” Aziraphale stammered, watching Crowley practically run out of the shop. “Happy Christmas, then.”

The door slammed shut with a _ding_ of the bell. Aziraphale heard the lock loudly click in to place.

There was a beat of sudden silence. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the the room, and out of Aziraphale's lungs. “Happy Christmas?” he repeated to himself, groaning. “Good Lord.” He put his head in his hands. What in God's name had just happened? He was not at all sure of what had gone wrong, but something he'd said must have upset the demon.

Aziraphale sunk back down into his plush chair with a sigh. He hoped Crowley wasn't too terribly upset with him, whatever he had done. He certainly hadn't been trying to push the serpent away. Crowley didn't stop by all that often as it was, and Aziraphale didn't want to purposefully make those visits more infrequent.

The half-dark bookshop was eerily quiet now that there was a sudden lack of Crowley. The angel tugged the loose bowtie off his neck. Come to think of it, Crowley never actually had told Aziraphale why he had come by.

Aziraphale reached for his mug of mulled wine on the table, and noticed something that hadn't been there before. A small dark lump. How odd. It appeared to be a parcel, wrapped in black tissue paper, with a green and red checkered piece of tape keeping it all together.

The angel furrowed his brow. What in the...?

He picked up the lump, which allowed him to determine that it was indeed some sort of wrapped parcel. There was no note. Not even a tag for a name. It was soft and pliant in his hands. Was it meant for him? He delicately pulled the tape off, taking care not to rip the tissue paper any more than necessary.

Inside was a tartan scarf. It was a creamy taupe color with bands of dark red and green, and a little yellow stripe in accent. It must have been made of lambswool, or cashmere, it was so delicate and soft. Aziraphale ran his fingers over the fabric. “Oh,” he breathed, not really meaning to make a sound at all.

Aziraphale had other scarves. In fact, he had other tartan scarves that were remarkably similar to this one. It was taking a little bit for Aziraphale's brain to catch up to the information presented before him. The package had definitely not been there before Crowley stood to leave. It was definitely wrapped, even if sloppily. But the implication that – had Crowley left him a present? A _Christmas_ present?

It wasn't as if Crowley hadn't ever given him anything. In fact, he'd gifted Aziraphale several nice bottles of wine not too long ago. But that was something for them to share, presumably. This was a gift, meant for Aziraphale, purely for his own enjoyment, that Crowley presumably had seen while he was out and had made him think of Aziraphale and that he had purchased and wrapped and given to him, at Christmastime, no less.

The Angel of the Eastern Gate held the present from the Serpent of Eden in his hands, and then wound the scarf around his neck, held it up close to his face, and breathed in the scent. Disappointingly, it smelled like a department store, all stale perfume and cleaning chemicals. But Aziraphale smiled anyway.

“Oh,” he sighed again, burying his hands in the soft wool. It was warm, and gentle, and so very sweet.

Perhaps Aziraphale would not be opening the bookshop tomorrow after all. No, certainly not. Not anymore. There were only two days until Christmas, for goodness sake. Would he even have time, before then? Hurriedly, he scribbled a note on a piece of paper – “Closed for Holidays”, it read – and went to hang it in the window on the front door.

* * *

Mayfair, London || December 24th

Crowley had decided to sleep.

He was just settling in for a nice, long nap. The blackout curtains had been pulled tight across the windows, and late-afternoon sunlight did not even dare enter the room, lest it have a demon of Hell to contend with. Any normal human would not have been able to see their hand in front of their face – but Crowley was neither normal or human. This was about the depth of darkness that he needed to even consider sleeping.

Crowley figured he would just nap right through the holidays. A two, maybe three day nap. At least then he wouldn't have to deal with the feeling of joy and cheer in the air. Of course, the last time he had settled in for a short nap he had ended up asleep for nearly a month, but that wasn't his fault. He had eaten a very large meal right before getting in bed, and he always slept so soundly on a full stomach.

He had tried to go about his business as usual yesterday – tempted a businessman to keep his store open on Christmas Day, disappeared most of the back stock of wrapping paper in London, given a poor man the idea to propose to his girlfriend on Christmas Eve. But he wasn't actually enjoying any of his work. In the back of his mind, he replayed the events at the bookshop over and over. What on Earth had he been thinking? He cringed every time he thought of it. Running out like that. Giving the present in the first place! What a stupid thing to do.

Especially because Aziraphale hadn't _said_ anything. After running out like that, he had sort of assured himself that everything was fine, that maybe Aziraphale would call him and do something silly like thank him, or even worse, tell him that he _liked_ the scarf. But the next day, there was no call. So he thought, maybe he was waiting until after closing the bookshop to phone, to ask him to meet at the park to thank him in person even, which would have been just awful. But night fell, and no word from the angel. Not even a note. And Crowley had maybe, perhaps, started to fret that he had done something wrong.

But that's what he was supposed to do, anyway, right? Do the wrong thing? He tried to reassure himself that, by making the angel uncomfortable or upset, he had done the _right_ thing. Perhaps Aziraphale would stay out of his way now. Stop bothering him and let him do his demonic work. He didn't need the angel getting in his way all the time, distracting him.

The serpent pulled the covers very tightly around himself and instinctively curled up, pulling his knees toward his chest. He was right in the center of the super king sized bed, black and grey blankets swirled around him like a nest. Yes, he definitely deserved a nap after these few days of spreading mayhem and discord.

He closed his eyes and settled in, willing his brain to stop thinking and let him drift off. He could hear a bit of a commotion from out in the hallway of the building, and he groaned. The old lady who lived downstairs must be up to something, hanging decorations or bringing home presents after a day of shopping. He pulled a pillow over his face to drown out the sound.

_Yes, let me suffocate_ , he thought. Better to suffocate in here than out there, surrounded by the sticky sweet cloud of merriment and love. (The fact that he did not actually need to breathe was not important.)

He observed with disappointment, however, that it did not sufficiently dampen the sound from outside. In fact, it now sounded like it was right outside his flat. And – was that – knocking? Was someone _knocking_ on the door to his flat?

Perhaps the old lady wanted to wish him a happy Christmas, a thought that simply infuriated him. Christmastime wasn't any different than any other time of year. But everyone had to try to go out of their way to be nice, to be in other people's business, to spread bloody cheer. And Crowley had had just about enough of that.

He threw the covers off, practically in a rage, and stormed to the front door.

Aziraphale rapped his knuckles on the door once again, a bit harder this time. “Crowley?” he called.

He'd been knocking for some time now. He was beginning to worry that the demon was not home. He would hate to have come all this way and have to turn around and walk right back to the bookshop in the cold. “Crowley dear, are you in there?” he called again, but the door was so solid he wasn't certain his voice could penetrate it.

He was just beginning to consider coaxing the door open himself, when suddenly, the door swung open, so fast and so hard Aziraphale could have missed it if he'd have blinked. Crowley stood on the other side of the doorway, dressed in a long-sleeved silk nightdress, his long hair sticking out every-which-way, pale yellow eyes practically glowing with anger. But his expression softened right away when his eyes met the angel's – confusion, surprise, and – was that panic?

“Angel?” he squeaked, his voice higher than normal.

Aziraphale was wearing the tartan scarf, wound snugly around his neck, tucked just in to the front of his cream winter coat. He was positively nestled in it, neck not even visible, just a little round head poking out of the soft folds. He looked so sweet and soft that Crowley wanted to slam the door shut in his face.

“Ah, Crowley! So glad I caught you while you were still home – oh, I'm so sorry, were you sleeping?” Aziraphale finally seemed to notice the nightdress.

Crowley looked down, brain not moving quite as fast as he'd like. “Uh, well, um,” he stammered, and took a slight step back from the door. “Was tryin' to,” he muttered.

“I'm terribly sorry,” replied the angel with a small frown. “Do you mind if I come in, just for a minute?”

The demon could feel a bubble rising in his chest. _Oh, shit. Oh, fuck._ He cleared his throat, trying to compose himself and shake the sleepiness from his head. Unconsciously, he stepped to the side, in a gesture that must have seemed like an invitation, and Aziraphale breezed in the door before Crowley could stop him.

“Oh! You've redecorated!” he exclaimed, looking up and around the apartment. It had been a few decades or so since the last time he'd been to Crowley's flat. They didn't spend time here. They had decided a while ago that it was too suspicious to visit each others homes very often, hence the many secret meeting places. “Quite industrial. Very modern.” Internally, Aziraphale determined it was cold and lacked much personality.

Crowley realized too late that he had lost control of the situation. “Yeah... thanks,” he replied. It was time to get out of the nightdress. With a snap of his fingers, he was dressed in street clothes – a thin v-neck sweater and dark skinny jeans. He cleared his throat, again. “So, uh, angel. What's up?”

Aziraphale stopped spinning slowly around the living room and turned to beam at the demon. His smile was like sunshine. “I just wanted to drop this off,” he said, and lifted his arm to show a small paper shopping bag dangling from his wrist. “You'll have to forgive me, I went to four different shops and couldn't find any wrapping paper at any of them! There must be a city-wide shortage. I'm not sure how, but it seems every single store is sold out and has no backstock!”

Crowley very much wished he was wearing his sunglasses. He wasn't sure what his expression was, but he felt absolutely mortified.

Right. That. His little Christmas miracle. “A shame,” he managed to get out, finally.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale continued, as if Crowley hadn't said anything at all, “here. This is for you.” The words were deliberate, and clear, and he held out the gift towards the demon with a flourish.

With that gesture, the Serpent of Eden realized that he was utterly trapped in his own home. He wanted to bolt out the front door, because the image of Aziraphale handing him a small gift while wrapped in the soft tartan scarf with his little mop of dandelion-fluff hair still mussed from the wind was so cute he couldn't take it. It was tooth-rottingly sweet.

Instead, as if he didn't have control of his own limbs, he reached out and took the package. Slowly, he opened the bag and reached inside. Before he had even seen what it was, Aziraphale was babbling again.

“Now, I haven't ever actually listened to it myself, but the clerk assured me it was the most popular album of this year. She told me that her boyfriend loves this band, and I really don't understand all this modern music, but I figured you must have heard of it. And I quite enjoyed the cover – ”

Crowley pulled a CD out of the paper bag. The front had an image of a woman waving a French flag, and in scratchy white font it said _Viva La Vida_. A sticker on the plastic wrapping said the name of the band: Coldplay.

Ah. Hm. Crowley was pretty sure he had heard that band name before. On the radio, maybe? He flipped it over to examine the track list, still not quite sure he was operating his own hands, brain still working to catch up to the present. He was honestly a little dumbfounded, trying to process the gift and Aziraphale's appearance at his flat and Christmas – Violet Hill? Death And All His Friends? Did he know these songs?

He glanced up and caught Aziraphale's expression, which was still bright with expectation but starting to falter just a bit, and that was about the moment when his thoughts went from -10 degrees to 80 miles per hour in a snap.

“Ah, yes, um, Coldplay!” he said, suddenly realizing that a bit of time had passed without him saying anything. “Yes, of course,” he continued, completely at a loss for what to say but knowing he needed to say _something_. “You know, music. Good stuff.” His gestures were too large, his voice too loud.

Aziraphale's smile was so bright, he could have singlehandedly lit the Trafalgar Square Christmas tree. “Oh good, I was worried you might not like it,” the angel admitted, and a small nervous laugh escaped from him.

Crowley's thoughts were off and racing with every cue from Aziraphale. _How long was he shopping for this? Why did he end up picking_ this _? Why didn't he call first? He just showed up, here. I guess that's fine, I show up at the bookshop all the time, but he_ never _comes_ here _. Do I still have bedhead? Is he going to leave? Is he going to stay?_

“No, no, I like it,” the demon reassured him, his tone thankfully even. “Quite nice.” He turned the CD over in his hands again, as if willing to absorb the knowledge of it through touch alone. “Uh. Thanks.” He almost winced as the word left his mouth. His mind was spinning with the image of Aziraphale in that tartan scarf, running around London, shopping for a gift to give to _him_. His ears felt hot.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale practically sighed, and Crowley's ears felt hotter still. “I haven't yet thanked you! You really didn't have to get me anything. I know you don't really –” the angel gestured with a swirl of his wrist “– _celebrate_ Christmas. It was very sweet of you, to think of me.” Aziraphale reached up to touch the scarf around his neck. “Thank you,” he said, smiling sweetly, his cheeks flushed slightly pink.

Panic rose in Crowley's chest, and his immediate impulse was to deny all involvement – _What are you talking about angel, I didn't buy you anything, someone_ else _must have magically made that scarf appear on your coffee table two nights ago as I was leaving_ – because he simply couldn't cope with all of this right now. The demon swallowed thickly. “You're welcome,” he finally squeaked out.

Crowley didn't realize how hard he was gripping the CD case in his hands until he looked down to avoid Aziraphale's eyes and realized his knuckles had gone a bit white with pressure. He hastily shoved it back in the paper shopping bag and – not knowing quite what to do next and feeling the pressure of Aziraphale's eyes on him – gingerly stepped to the coffee table and set the bag down atop it, oh so carefully, as though it contained a bomb. “Right then,” he said.

Surely this was over now, he mused to himself, and felt both relieved and disappointed at the thought.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, gingerly, as though trying to coax a cat from a tree, “I was wondering if you had any plans for the evening.” Unconsciously, he fiddled with the hem of his coat. This was the part he hadn't fully thought all the way through.

“Ah. Hmm. Er,” Crowley made a few additional utterances. “What did you have in mind?”

The angel and the demon made their way by foot, at Aziraphale's instance, to a small but tasteful Indian restaurant that he swore had the best pakora. Aziraphale was riding high on the feeling of love and cheer in the air, and the joy of gift-giving, and ordered a few more appetizers than he knew was wise. Crowley felt himself relaxing into the familiarity of their routine – so the gift hadn't ruined everything, then. He ordered an Indian black lager that sounded good, and then another, while Aziraphale recounted his last few days dealing with customers in the bookshop.

In between bites of paneer makhani, Aziraphale admired the holiday decorations, which, to Crowley's pleasure, clashed quite awfully with the purple and orange painted walls. “Can you believe the humans actually think that Father Christmas looks like that?” he said, gesturing to a small wall-hanging featuring a man in a red suit and a shiny white beard.

Crowley turned to look. “Wot?” he replied, dumbfounded.

Aziraphale shook his head. “That silly outfit! And they depict him with such a large beard. Quite impractical during flight, or so I'm told.”

“So you're told? By who? Santa?”

“Well... yes,” the angel admitted sheepishly, and Crowley stared, open mouthed.

“Oh no, angel,” he said, his heart sinking. “Please don't tell me – oh, no, no. I can't be the one to have you tell you – on Christmas Eve, no less...” Crowley may have been evil, but he wasn't _that_ evil.

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh, my dear,” he said, bringing a hand to his chest, over his heart. “Father Christmas _is_ real, you know. I've met him.”

“You've... met Father Christmas.”

“Well, yes. He's quite real, I can assure you.” The angel tilted his head up to the serpent with a coy smile. “That is, if you believe in him, of course.”

Crowley searched Aziraphale's face for a minute, trying to figure out if he was joking. “Let me guess. You waited up with sherry and pie, and when he stopped by the bookshop, you just... had a little chat?”

“Well, it's quite become a tradition of ours now,” Aziraphale retorted with a grin.

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. Of course. He should have guessed his heavenly companion would be best friends with Santa Claus. “Only you, angel,” he said, trying not to smile. But Aziraphale saw it, all the same.

Only after the angel had cleaned every crumb of dessert off his plate did Crowley slide his credit card across the table to the waiter. Maybe there had been something in the drinks, or maybe Christmastime was driving him mad, because he left a tip large enough to make the waiter stare open-mouthed as the pair walked out onto the street.

Aziraphale sighed contentedly as he wound the tartan scarf around his neck and buttoned his coat. “Becoming quite chilly tonight,” he remarked. Crowley only hummed in reply, because it really wasn't that cold, but he wasn't in the mood to disagree. Instead he stuffed his hands down into the pockets of his black wool coat and allowed his slightly intoxicated gaze to linger on Aziraphale's scarf just a moment too long. They began to make their way to Soho in unspoken agreement.

Though the sun had long set, the night was lit with the cheerful glow of string lights wrapped around fenceposts and bordering windows. The shop displays cast a glow on the sidewalk, enticing passerbys with beautifully manicured arrangement of toys or clothes or appliances. People bustled by, weighed down by bags and making their very last minute purchases or with wrapped parcels on the way to a party. The couples walked slowly, arm-in-arm. Aziraphale slowed his usual brisk pace.

Regent Street was dressed to the nines in twinkling lights, red bows, and green garland twined around every lightpost. Crowley tried not to balk, and the alcohol in his blood helped to dim the pressure of Christmas cheer. His angelic friend, on the other hand, was practically glowing, though fortunately not quite enough for any human to take notice.

In a large shop window featuring a shiny refrigerator, Crowley made note of a few paper cherubs with bright red cheeks toting little trumpets and harps. They were suspended from clear fishing line and twirling slowly. The demon elbowed his friend, nodding in their direction. “Can you believe the humans think that angels look like that?” he mocked gently. Aziraphale's already pink-tinged cheeks grew a shade darker.

“The sweeping robes, the harp, how dreadfully outdated. You'd think humans hadn't seen an angel in millennia!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Well, I can't exactly correct that misinterpretation, can I?” he retorted, glancing away from the display.

“'S not _that_ far off, to be fair. I mean, look at those beady little Precious Moments eyes. Could swear I've seen that look on your face before,” teased the demon.

Aziraphale turned and started marching away, but not before Crowley caught sight of the blush now creeping up from his neck. “I need to make a quick stop,” the angel murmured. He turned the corner down a side street without pausing to wait for Crowley, who followed quickly, a bit stunned that he'd managed to hurt the angel's feelings so easily.

Wordlessly, Aziraphale navigated the pair down a narrow sidewalk. Tucked between an overpriced vegan juice bar and an upscale clothing shop was a little boutique liquor store, a classy striped green awning and brass-plated finishings setting it apart from the sauve modern shops next door. The Angel of the Eastern Gate pushed open the worn wooden door, which looked ancient in a well-loved way, and a bell chimed above his head. From where Crowley stood behind him, the warm light from the exposed Edison bulbs above lit the fuzz of windswept hair around Aziraphale's head like a golden halo. A halo Crowley hadn't seen in maybe four thousand years. Quickly, he glanced away.

“Ah, Mr. Fell,” the shopkeep exclaimed, “so happy you made it by this evening! We were just getting ready to close.”

It was almost 10 in the evening, on Christmas Eve, no less. Crowley wondered if it was demonic or miraculous energy keeping the store open this late on a holiday, when nearly every surrounding shop was dark. Aziraphale beamed at the round old man and greeted him warmly, then disappeared down a narrow aisle. Crowley casually glanced over a few of the bottles on display by the window, and barely held back a whistle. For as quaint a shop as it was, the wares were top notch, and priced accordingly.

Fortunately, though, the Christmas décor was sparse, just a few evergreen garlands draped across the lip of the dark-wood counter and paper snowflakes taped to the endcaps. Crowley took a deep breath, feeling slightly less suffocated, and turned his attention to the scotch display tucked neatly in the corner. Maybe he'd sleep better tonight with a bit more liquor in his blood.

Aziraphale came to the counter as Crowley was finishing his own transaction and tucking a brown paper-wrapped bottle into the deep pockets of his wool coat. But the angel didn't inquire to the demon's purchase as he lofted three black bottles with artful parchment labels onto the counter. Crowley wrinkled his nose.

“Bleh, sherry? Really, angel? You know I can't stand the stuff.”

Aziraphale shot the serpent a look. “It's not for you, dear,” he said as he reached for his wallet. Then, just a bit sheepishly, he continued. “It's for... Nicholas.”

“Oh, Satan spare me,” Crowley cursed, rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses and leaning his full weight onto the counter.

“Ah, Oloroso sherry,” the shopkeeper mused, a warm smile on his face. “Very festive, perfect for the season. An excellent choice. Are you celebrating this evening?

Aziraphale smiled back. “Just having a friend over,” he replied.

Crowley made a sound that could have been interpreted as a gag and pushed himself off the counter, stepping out of the shop as to not bear witness to this exchange a moment longer. Aziraphale looked apologetically at the shopkeeper and Crowley heard him say, “Sorry, he's a bit of Scrooge,” as the door _dinged_ shut.

The crisp air outside bit at his hot cheeks. Why were his cheeks hot? This blasted holiday, no doubt. The demonic serpent reached into his pocket and uncapped the fresh fifth of scotch. How preposterous of him to assume Aziraphale intended the alcohol for him, after all. He shook his head, and his long red hair spun around his face. He just needed to take the edge off, he thought, lifting the bottle to his lips. His nerves felt shot, tonight. He wasn't thinking straight.

Aziraphale emerged a moment later with a paper bag tucked under his arm. He looked up at Crowley sympathetically. “Sorry about the... erm,” he hesitated and looked down the street, all decorated with twinkling lights and garlands and bows. “About the festivities. I know it's not your style,” the angel finished weakly.

Crowley simply snorted, unable to justify a reply. He hoisted himself up off the brick wall he'd been leaning deeply against and took a deep breath. “Shall we?” he muttered lowly, ready for the night to end already. Aziraphale gave him a comforting smile, and the pair continued on side-by-side down the street.

The rest of the walk was mostly silent, as Crowley nursed his hurt feelings, though he tried to tell himself his feelings were not actually hurt. What a fool, he was. Should have known better than to try and make anything nice out of Christmas. Absolutely the most rubbish time of year, after all. He'd only make his misery worse by participating in gift-giving, and merriment, and cheer.

Finally, A. Z. Fell & Co. was within sight. Crowley noted that the usual paper sign listing the chaotic opening and closing schedule had been superseded by a handwritten note indicating the shop is closed for holidays, but that this was the only signifier of the quickly approaching festivity. No string lights, no wreaths, no garland. Just the same bookshop it was all year round. And the serpentine demon felt it just a bit easier to breathe, here.

Aziraphale reached for the door handle, the locks clicking open at his touch. “Now I know you're not typically one for sherry,” he started, as the door opened, “but I have a few other quality spirits in the back, for special occasions. I would be happy to grab you a glass of whatever you'd prefer?”

“Hm,” Crowley muttered. “No, not tonight, angel.”

It had gotten quite late, since Aziraphale came to his flat this afternoon. Crowley glanced down at his watch – 10:37pm. The holiday would be upon them soon enough, and the demon would much prefer to retreat to the cheer-less confines of his home to wait out the day of peace on Earth. Besides, no need imposing when he clearly was an afterthought.

Aziraphale faltered mid-step into the shop. “Oh?” he breathed, making it quite obvious that he did not expect the night to end here. The paper bag crinkled against his coat as he turned around to face Crowley.

“I better be going. 'Sides, you've got another guest to entertain,” the demon said, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his coat and turning his face away. It was actually starting to get a bit chilly now. His breath left his mouth like smoke.

Aziraphale started to protest – something along the lines of, oh, but it's Christmas Eve, you don't want to spend it alone, do you? – but realized how foolish of a sentiment that was. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then fidgeted with the edge of the paper bag. Maybe it was the cheer in the air (the closer the holiday came, the more intoxicated he seemed to feel) or maybe it was the act of exchanging gifts that led him to feel something had shifted. If he didn't act on it tonight, he wasn't sure it would last.

“Crowley –” the angel began, his eyes fixed downward, at the spot on the pavement between his shoes. He suddenly realized how quiet the street was. All the shoppers were gone home, the strolling couples warm inside, children who wouldn't be able to fall asleep for another hour getting tucked into beds. Aziraphale's chest felt tight with possibility, mind a bit foggy with holiday spirit. “Crowley, dear,” he began again, feeling breathless.

Crowley looked up sharply, eyes wide. The “dear” caught him off guard, made a lump form in his throat. He'd been somewhat used to hearing Aziraphale throw the word about, but this wasn't the same “dear.” Oh no. Crowley heard it, even if Aziraphale hadn't intended for it to quite come out that way. The demon's heartbeat ticked up in pace.

“I'd really like for you to come inside, tonight,” Aziraphale said, eyes still fixed downwards. His chin was buried in the tartan scarf, which hid the redness on his neck. “Even if just for one drink. I know you aren't in the best of spirits, with the holiday and all, but...”

The angel paused, unsure how to continue, trying to find the best path forward in an unfamiliar terrain. There was something warm and bright in his chest, hopeful and hopeless at the same time, that urged him on. “I'd like to have your company, at least.”

No response came, so Aziraphale looked up from his feet to see Crowley's reaction. The demon was staring, mouth slightly ajar. Though not at Aziraphale, no. The angel followed his gaze upward, above the pair. On the wood framing around the entrance to the bookstore hung a small plant, dotted with little white berries, tied neatly with a red ribbon.

The angel could feel the blood rushing to to face, loud in his ears. “Oh,” he said, unintentionally, and then, in realizing he had started talking, was unable to stop himself. “Oh my. Is that –” he faltered, afraid to name the thing out loud. “Oh dear,” he stammered. “How did that get there?”

Before the words had left his mouth, he knew how it had gotten there, and he instantly regretted saying it, because now Crowley's gaze was fixed on _him_. Aziraphale could see, even with the sunglasses, that the serpent's eyes were wide, and pupils slitted so narrow the black was just a line. The angel froze under the stare of the Serpent of Eden, though the stare looked just as much panicked as he himself felt. Aziraphale's throat was tight, neck and face hot, and he reached up to pull the scarf away from his skin so he could breathe –

The scarf. The tartan scarf from Crowley. The scarf that the Serpent of Eden, his supposedly sworn enemy, had gifted him, likely against all his better instincts, at Christmas. Oh, the insanity of it all! Aziraphale felt like he had downed a bottle of wine, head swimming with racing thoughts. It was Christmas Eve, and Crowley had given him a scarf, and here they were standing under a miracled mistletoe like a pair of human lovers. And in the angel's haze of merriment and confusion, only one possibility emerged.

He pitched himself forward and kissed Crowley.

It was a simple kiss. It was all either could manage, under the circumstances. Aziraphale pressed his mouth a bit too firmly against Crowley's, too much nervous energy to restrain himself, grabbing Crowley's bicep with his free hand too tight just to steady himself from caving all his weight into the kiss. There was a rising bubble in his chest that threatened to burst any second, and his mouth tingled like starlight where Crowley's lips touched his.

At first Crowley stiffened, straight as a board. Every thought in his mind vanished. It was as if time had frozen, and maybe it had. He was dimly aware of Aziraphale's grip on the arm of his coat, but the only thing he could really feel was the angel's lips pressed against his own, burning him hot like Hellfire, sending sparks of electricity all the way to his toes. He wasn't breathing. He didn't dare. He was too afraid to break whatever spell they were under.

But, after all-too brief a moment, and even though Crowley hadn't moved a single centimeter, Aziraphale gently pulled away. Crowley opened his eyes – wait, his eyes had been closed? – and saw the angel looking up at him with those incredibly soft blue eyes. Very concerned, those bright blue eyes were, and the eyebrows starting to knit together. “Oh, I'm so sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, and began to move away.

_Oh no_ , Crowley thought, his brain slowly turning back on, _oh shit, I'm totally fucking this up_ , and he hastily leaned forward to close the small space between their faces, to kiss Aziraphale back, to assure him that everything was fine. But in his haste make amends, he didn't really have the time to realize that _he was indeed kissing Aziraphale back_ until it was too late and their lips met again.

Crowley didn't really intend to make the kiss as deep as it was, but with the advantage of his height and the angle at which he caught Aziraphale's slightly parted lips in his own, it was so different than the first. Not just two mouths touching, but interlocked, lip over lip, hot breath on his face, mind-spinning. Without prompting, his traitorous hands left his sides to rest on the angel's back, and he felt Aziraphale absolutely melt into the touch and lean forward into his chest. _Oh, good Lord_ , he silently blasphemed as the angel touched a palm to his chest and set his body on fire.

Crowley would never admit that he had accidentally thought about kissing Aziraphale before. It was only when they were both quite drunk and Aziraphale's lips were very wet and pink. Crowley always shut down the notion as quickly as it came up, unwilling to even let himself wonder for fear of heartache. Which is why he never would have imagined that Aziraphale would taste faintly like rich milk and honey. Never thought that Aziraphale's hot breath on his face would knock the wind out of his own lungs. Never hoped to feel Aziraphale's soft lips pull into a smile against his own, to be enveloped in his embrace.

It could have been seconds, or hours, or a millennium, Crowley wasn't sure. He didn't care. The universe owed him a millennium of this, after all the time he'd spent quietly smothering his heart.

Aziraphale was smiling against Crowley's mouth, giddy with joy and cheer, heady with love. He didn't want to stop kissing Crowley but he pulled back anyway, so he could look up into the serpent's yellow eyes, admire the red flush in his cheeks. “Crowley,” he breathed softly, squeezing every ounce of love into the word that he could. The demon's blush darkened, and Crowley swallowed thickly, dumbfounded.

Aziraphale reached up to run his hand through Crowley's shoulder-length red hair and realized it was dotted with white snowflakes. He looked toward the sky with a small incredulous laugh; it had started snowing. The dainty little crystals wafted lazily around them, in no rush to reach the ground. The city was quiet, holding its breath in anticipation of the snowfall.

The Serpent of Eden cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “Snow,” was all he managed to get out, much to his own horror.

Aziraphale laughed again. “Yes, indeed. My mistake, I'm afraid,” he replied, brushing the powder from Crowley's hair. The sudden intimacy both frightened and excited Crowley, who was torn between bolting as fast as he could down the street and scooping Aziraphale up in his arms and carrying him across the threshold of the bookshop. Instead, he simply stood frozen in place, arms still encircling the angel.

Aziraphale, the Angel of the Eastern Gate, looked up into those serpentine eyes. “Well,” he said, finally starting to feel a just a bit embarrassed at how out-of-control he'd let himself be this evening – _mistletoe! snow! kissing!_ – “I simply can't allow you to walk all the way home in this weather.” The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled.

Crowley raised an eyebrow, acknowledging the jest. “I believe the weather is your fault, angel,” he retorted with a small grin, barely able to keep his voice from cracking.

“Yes, and I ought to make it up to you,” Aziraphale replied. “Come inside, let me make you a cup of something hot.”

Crowley's other eyebrow raised now, not sure the innuendo he heard was intended. But Aziraphale was already disentangling himself to open the front door of the shop and didn't notice. “Besides,” he continued, “I want to listen to that CD I bought you. See what all the fuss is about this modern rock music.”

Surprisingly, a laugh bubbled up from Crowley's mouth. Only Aziraphale could keep him guessing like this. Only Aziraphale could go from snogging to cocoa to rock music in a thirty-second span. Crowley realized what a fool he had been. He'd spent years, decades, centuries worrying that if he told the angel how he'd felt, that if he acted on his feelings, that he would lose him. But he should have known that Aziraphale would take it all in stride.

Ever-eloquent Crowley opened his mouth to try and express the sentiment aloud. “If I'd've known that all I needed to do was buy you a Christmas present –” he started, then faltered, and shook his head. “I mean, if you'd told me, that we'd be –” _that we'd be what? Kissing? Snogging? On Christmas?_ The demon sighed in frustration.

“Angel,” he began again. “Do you even have a CD player? I mean, do you even own any technology from this decade?”

Aziraphale shrugged, halfway through the bookshop door. “Not a problem, dear. I'll ask Nicholas if he can gift me one as a Christmas present.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, smiled, and followed his angel into the shop.

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever emerge from a 7 year hiatus to post Christmas Crowzira? Hello world, I am back and I have sweet angel/demon fluff.
> 
> This was originally written as a character study, but then it really spiraled out of control and I got stressed about it and I'm only getting around to posting this a year and a half after I originally wrote it. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Also, I am not British. I wrote this to be as oppressively British as I possibly could, but I am sure there are spelling errors and cultural markers I missed. If you are British and you have corrections, let me know!


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